


Break, Mend, Repeat

by NaturalAddict



Category: Star vs. The Forces Of Evil
Genre: (Brief) Anal Sex, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Bullying, Cheating, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forbidden Love, Hints of asexual/homoromantic Marco, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Violence, M/M, Mild (?) Angst, Outdated Morality, Sorry Not Sorry, Tom is a hypocrite, Well not really, Yes that's what I'm calling it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 07:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8789545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaturalAddict/pseuds/NaturalAddict
Summary: He adores moments like these, when they are truly together, lives for them, can't help but notice each time how different it is from trying to casually navigate the cold hallways of their school only to end up bumping into his secret (boyfriend? lover? fuck buddy? Thinking about it for too long makes him nauseous, so) into him, he amends mentally. In these special occasions he doesn't think of Star, of how she gets to hold his hand in public, talk to him, kiss him, just stand beside him like it's nothing. He gets a break from jealousy, because he knows that what they have is much more special than any bond Tom could possibly share with the girl. It is want, passion, love - and then, invariably, it all reverts back to anger.





	

Marco slides himself down, guiding Tom inside him, pauses, takes in the feeling of warm hands undoubtedly leaving marks on his hips as he moves experimentally. He watches as Tom's head rolls back, lips parting in a silent gasp. He does it again without having to be told - again, again, the motions tiring and putting a strain on his body. He looks like he is about to say something for a moment, but ends up just letting out a strangled moan. The pain is familiar, almost cathartic. They are naked. Dancing. Burning. Connected.  It is hard to think. It is hard to _breathe_. He doesn't stop. 

Tom needs this.

Marco does not.

He complies every time he is sought out, anyway. He would deny that he is being forced if anybody ever asked, but he knows they won't. They will never even know about this, he thinks, and that's alright sometimes; others, it is torture. Tom usually tells him not to think about it too much, so he makes a conscious effort to avoid that train of thought.

Tom isn't saying anything now, though, and his mind wanders, contemplates many things, but most notably conjures up a non-existent place where they wouldn't have to hide. He revisits that place often, but it doesn't always bring comfort. Now is one of those occasions where he is left feeling hollow with the loss of something he never had. He imagines what Tom would say if he knew that Marco is thinking about this (these silly, pointless things, as he would have described them) whilst he moves up and down in an almost frenetic rhythm. The musing actually brings a smile to his lips. 

The older male looks at him, questioning, and he shakes his head and mutters, it's nothing. 

Tom doesn't appear convinced. He thrusts up into Marco - forceful, rough. It hurts, but the sound he emits must have been mistaken for one of pleasure, because Tom does it a few more times. Marco takes it, silent, and when it finally ceases, he struggles to continue like his pace hadn't been interrupted, but he thinks he manages, because there are no more physical protests. 

It ends shortly after that, and Marco refuses to acknowledge the sentiment he feels as relief that it's over (for now) as they lie together, panting. He feels a tingling linger in his body, and  _really_ , he thinks,  _this isn't so bad_. It's not that no part of him enjoys it. His body responds to Tom's words, touch, mouth, his body and, more importantly, the way he knows how to use them, either individually or combined. His fingers and tongue and (Marco refuses to think about what else has been inside him) can bring him up and get him off. He enjoys it, to a certain degree, even if he doesn't necessarily want it. 

Really, Tom would say if he ever tried to complain. What other options does he have? If he loves him, shouldn't he want to take care of his needs, or would he rather Tom go seek satisfaction from someone else?

Marco would bite his lip to keep in that _he is getting it from someone else_ , partially because there is a fraction of him that has learnt to be afraid of Tom at all times, but mostly because what if Tom pondered that truth for a minute, two, and then decided he had no use for him after all? 

A younger, more grounded Marco would say that Tom was using him, playing on his need to be held and treated with affection - to be loved. He isn't that person now, however. Hasn't been for a long time.

He is thinking about when Tom could be planning their next (intimate) meeting to be, if he has any plans at all, or if he just comes to Marco whenever he gets that craving that the Latino boy has never experienced for himself. His head is pillowed on Tom's shoulder, he can feel his chest moving and his faint heartbeat.

Did I hurt you? The question is typical, though it is not Tom that does most of the work. I've had worse, Marco says - also typical. Tom doesn't read into it, which Marco is half thankful for (half stabbed by). 

He starts to ask, _Do you remember how we...?_ He doesn't want to say "got together" - well, he does want to say it, desperately, but it seems inappropriate. _Met?_ He finishes belatedly, though he is by no means referring to their actual first meeting, on a sunny Sunday afternoon after church service, when the kids had all gathered to play and he had yet to taste the feeling of being left behind, pushed aside, ignored on (rare) good days and tormented (whenever they have nothing better to do).

He looks up after a moment or two pass without response. Tom is already asleep.  

Resigned, Marco focuses on the soft sounds of his breathing and soon consciousness evades him too.

* * *

It was one of the last parties Marco would attend (be invited to), but he didn't know that at the time. He was having careless, light-hearted fun, not joining the agglomeration of familiar swaying bodies, but he was content to watch. Every now and then, someone came up to greet him, ask if he was having a good time, why wasn't he dancing. He gave the same quick answers each time, the words rolling off his tongue like they had been rehearsed. 

Tom was not satisfied with those sample responses, which originally annoyed Marco a bit, but he was a polite person and decided to humour him. 

They talked and talked, laughed and laughed, drank and drank, and then Marco was saying, I don't really like girls. He wasn't thinking about it, and he would later regret it, then be proud of it, then regret it, then... He took a deep breath when Tom averted his eyes. 

That's disgusting, he said. A pause, and then: Me too. Their eyes met again and Marco found himself smiling. Tom wasn't smiling back, but he was doing other things - rubbing a deformed circle on the back of Marco's hand, leaning in closer than he needed to as he made meaningless comments that nonetheless succeeded in twisting Marco's lips in lazy smiles, dragging him away from the crowded area to a quieter, more secluded space, pulling him closer, kissing him. 

The contact was tentative, soft, gentle,  _perfect_. It sent sparks throughout Marco's whole body, and he actually trembled, standing still for a brief moment before allowing himself to kiss back. 

Sounds that he would later register as embarrassing escaped him as it changed from chaste to heated, to- _where was Tom touching him?_

He felt like he was on top of the world. Like he could do anything, follow any array of dreams, so long as Tom was with him. It was inebriating, much more so than all the alcohol he had consumed that night summed together. He breathlessly made that comment in one of the brief moments they were apart for air before leaning in again. Tom laughed, and Marco thought that was inebriating too. 

They got caught. 

"He came onto me!" Tom claimed - or did he say  _attacked? -_  I tried to stop him, but... 

No more explanations were needed, which Tom must have been thankful for. It was either his reputation or his charisma, but people believed him without giving the smaller boy any chance to debate. The nausea Marco felt as he realised the position he was in was nothing compared to the pain that came soon after. The first of the (many) beatings he would take subsequently to this, yes, but also the ache of heartbreak.

After it seemed like everything was over, Tom felt the need to reassert himself. He had his arm around a girl as he spat directly on Marco's face, soiling his cheek with the same substance that made his lips glisten faintly in the moonlight. She commented on being happy to have such a strong boyfriend with a poorly suppressed snicker.

Tom had a  _girlfriend?_ But he thought... 

It didn't matter what he thought, and that became clear to him soon after he had collected himself and painfully walked the way back home, feeling lost even though he knew exactly where was going. 

He had a talk with his parents and, after that, noticed of his own accord that the town he had fondly considered his little corner of the world was rotten. Well, maybe not something as dramatic as that, but he couldn't ignore that the general consensus of what was wrong, and even what should be outlawed, was blurry. In the town's eyes, crimes such as murder and rape weren't always unjustifiable, but  _people like him_ had no place in a decent society. 

He knew this, because none of his peers were at all embarrassed to come up to Marco and colourfully tell him that he should be thrown in jail for what he had done - who he was. 

Between this, the (not) discreet whispers of  _queer, pansy, pillow biter, little bitch_ everywhere he went, the looks, his complete lack of friends, the nightmares, and the fact that his parents weren't talking to him, he began to plan his escape. He thought of running away from this town, finding a place where he could reinvent himself; that was probably when his little fantasy world was born, which meant that deep down, he knew all too well that it wasn't a remarkably viable possibility. The other alternative was... (he caught himself staring at his bottle of prescribed sleeping pills too often, held it in his hand one day, ready to pour all the round white tablets into his hand, and-).

Tom called, which was more than shocking enough to interrupt him. Everyone had his number; everyone had everyone's number, but his phone never rang (anymore). Marco asked if he was still dating the girl - whom he had learnt to be Star Butterfly, a newcomer welcomed into the community like few others, but she was still The Girl to him - because he simply couldn't contain himself. He had to know. After everything Tom had put him through, he remained the only one who understood, even if didn't always seem like he did. 

Tom laughed, he subconsciously blushed and concluded that the question probably gave away the fact that he was still interested, which he thought was confirmed by the way Tom's voice lowered to a sultry tone as he said, no. He wasn't. 

Marco thought he was lying, and turned out to be correct, but realised he didn't (want to) care when Tom asked if he would like to meet up somewhere private. He wanted to have some fun together, and the implication behind those words was lost on Marco.

He agreed. 

A few weeks later found him wondering how Tom expected to conceal their escapades. It really wasn't that difficult, he rationalised. Tom just had to say he was busy, and of course no one would check to find out that Marco was coincidentally also busy each time, since - he swallowed heavily - no one cared (anymore). _Still_ , he couldn't help but wonder. They had been found out once in the past, and if he were to go by Tom's reaction to that experience, he wouldn't say the other would be willing to risk that happening again. 

His silent question was answered one eventful Tuesday when he was ambushed after gym class. Everyone saw what Tom did to him, but only the two of them were aware of the irony of the situation, of how the hands that were balled into fists and used as weapons were the same that reverently mapped out Marco's body just a few days before, enthusiastically, eagerly. The same mouth that spilled countless profanities had whispered sweet nothings in his ear. The same face that was contorted into anger had shown him the most beautiful, peaceful smiles. At least he was sure that, this time, no one would figure out what they were doing under wraps. They both were certain of that, actually, though only one of them felt bitter about it. 

That Friday, he received another call. Star was out of town visiting relatives, Tom told him. He wanted to have some fun together. Marco knew what that meant, now. 

(He agreed.)

* * *

He wakes up, disturbed and wanting comfort. Tom isn't in bed with him. He deflates. There is no note, no nothing - no proof, his mind supplies. His small bedroom is eerily empty. 

Eventually, he gets up, gets ready, goes to school, arrives home with fresh bruises. His parents say nothing. 

He spends the rest of the week waiting for a call that never comes. 

The days stretch out, seemingly all the same. He finds himself observing Tom and friends (girlfriend) from afar. Sometimes, she looks at Marco with an unreadable expression, and a more paranoid - or perhaps more sanguine - part of him feels that she  _knows_. Tom disappears from his sight, but Star (the name sounds like a curse in his head) comes walking in his direction. He isn't afraid of her, and when she coughs,  _bloody sissy_ as she walks past him, it has no effect. 

If anything, the incident only serves to accentuate his joy when Tom finally does call. 

He wants something different, now. Not something they hadn't done before, but, Marco notes to himself as he sits on his knees in the harsh wooden floor of his room, a considerably rare occurrence for them. Tom grips his hair, - pulls, tugs - thrusts into his mouth, lets out a string of obscenities, and he can't say he doesn't prefer this. It hurts a bit less as the back his throat is constantly hit than most of their other activities, and Tom is actually not leaving everything up to him, and he can just space out without worrying, so long as he looks up into Tom's eyes sporadically, making sure to appear properly lustful.

Tom pulls back as he climaxes, and Marco, as usual, pretends not to hate the warm, sticky substance on his face, pretends it doesn't remind him of Tom's saliva on his cheek, of Star's sickening snigger. He smiles, and stays still as Tom snaps another photograph for his collection (because he is allowed to have tokens of their activities, allowed to have proof, but Marco isn't - he doesn't wonder the implications of that for him if he ever wanted out of his relationship). 

He washes his face, and when he returns, Tom is fully dressed, but he's not leaving. 

I wonder how you do it by yourself, Tom purrs. At first, Marco has no idea what he means, and, noticing this, he adds: When I'm not here to take care of you.

Marco feels exposed - he  _is_ exposed, and he wants to say, I don't do it. 

He stares back into Tom's expectant eyes for a total of five seconds before he is wrapping his hand around his cock. His touch is not tentative, or slow, or teasing. He doesn't want to drag this out, hand moving in fast, arrhythmic strokes, handling himself with much less dedication than whenever he did this for Tom.

Tom, who is watching him with an expression that makes Marco's stomach drop. 

Tom, whose name he calls as he climaxes, who (doesn't care enough to) know that he is just putting on a show, for him.

A smile, a brief kiss, a mutter of  _I love you_ , and Marco is on cloud nine.

He adores moments like these, when they are truly together, lives for them, can't help but notice each time how different it is from trying to casually navigate the cold hallways of their school only to end up bumping into his secret (boyfriend? lover? fuck buddy? Thinking about it for too long makes him nauseous, so) into him, he amends mentally.

In these special occasions he doesn't think of Star, of how she gets to hold his hand in public, talk to him, kiss him, just stand beside him like it's nothing. He gets a break from jealousy, because he knows that what they have is much more special than any bond Tom could possibly share with the girl. It is want, passion, love - and then, invariably, it all reverts back to anger.

Maybe not now, as Tom strokes his hair and kisses his forehead before he leaves, but certainly later in the week when he hears rather than feels his body slamming against the closed lockers, doesn't see but  _knows_ that people are stopping to watch. There are three of them, as if Tom needs any help taking on a weak-willed nobody who obviously isn't much of a fighter.

A few things cross his mind. 

Snogging Tom, getting caught, being whooped.

Reaching out to his parents, being told that it was all his fault, feeling like he has no family.

The bottle of sleeping pills (which he still takes in his hand to this day, examines, puts back in the bathroom cabinet). 

His reflexion in the full-length mirror he has come to hate, bruises and hickeys and cuts littering his tan skin. 

But what sticks is not a memory - Tom offering him his hand, helping him get up, holding him and (not quite) ignoring the shocked, disgusted, infuriated reactions they would get (but knowing that they would be fine, because they have each other and, in the end, that is all that they need).

He closes his eyes, tilts his chin up; much like when he expects a kiss after performing a sexual activity, and waits for the first punch. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well. That was that.


End file.
